Classic Poem

How do you like to get out on a court,
Out in the August sun?
Oh, I think that is the pleasantest sport
Ever a boy has done.


Every night I say a prayer
That I shall be a better player;
And every day it's not too wet
I knock the balls across the net.

The child who has a little nerve
Will have a fairly decent serve;
He'll win a match, I'm pretty sure,
Unless his forehand drive is poor.


A birdie who observed me play
Stopped a minute just to say,
As I sent a service out,
“Ain't you 'shamed, you clumsy lout?”


The world is so full of a number of parks.
I'm sure we should all be as happy as larks.


The friendly court all green and white
I love with all my heart;
I hit the ball with all my might,
But precious little art.